


High Hrothgar

by Bonne_Niviati



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: M/M, Myldir
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-30
Updated: 2012-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-30 08:52:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bonne_Niviati/pseuds/Bonne_Niviati
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the negotiations held in the lofty halls of Hrothgar, Ulfric and Myldir meet again, fireworks ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	High Hrothgar

“Then we are done?”

Nine faces from around the table sharply turned to him, the Imperials looked sceptical, but the Stormcloaks and Blades; mildly interested. They were familiar with how he operated.

Myldir rolled his eyes.

He had done what he came to do.

The negotiations between Imperial and Stormcloak had gone on long enough, and a scrappy truce had just about been reached. If there were other matters to discuss, they were trivial.

They didn’t need him for that.

Myldir directed a bold glance at the Greybeard elder, who almost smiled. He was used to the Dragonborn’s brisk way of dealing with things; it had served his order well.

Arngeir nodded curtly, and the room relaxed a little under his authority.

Apart from _him_.

Throughout the whole meeting, he hadn’t relaxed, he had sat bolt upright, stiff and unyielding, even after all Myldir’s reassurances that all would be well, even after all Myldir had promised him he would gain.

Jarl Ulfric had avoided the wood elf’s eyes since he arrived in High Hrothgar, no matter how luridly or scornfully the bosmer had stared at him.

The thought quickly angered Myldir, and he sood quickly, alarming Elisif and her thug of a bodyguard, and receiving a frosty look from the forlorn General.

Myldir blinked indifferently at him, it really hadn’t been poor Tullius’ night.

But that was all part of the plan.

He cast Ulfric one last look, a final chance to meet his gaze, to show him some sign of recognition.

The Jarl noticed the dovahkiin’s movement, but kept his eyes firmly fixed on the tankard before him. He gripped it tightly, his knuckles were white.

“Then I’ll be leaving.”

 

-

 

The Greybeards had offered Myldir a large room, a bed chamber of sorts in which to stay the night, but he had gratefully declined.

This small, unused room behind the larder drew him back time after time. Perhaps it was the lure of the crackling fireplace, or the privacy of the high, frosted windows. 

A snow storm was dancing a pale flurry outside tonight.

Myldir sat down upon the old wooden chair in front of the fire with a groan, and slowly shut his eyes, sinking into the welcome warmth the fire exhaled. 

He was sorely tired.

But there was a long journey still yet to make, in the morn he would return to Whiterun.

For there was nothing keeping him here, nothing wanted to keep him here.

The fire he stared so intently into was staring to burn in his palms, a magical fury he had yet to master.

Myldir threw his head back, but his eyes immediately snapped open.

Someone was approaching the door. 

Footsteps were hard to mask in these hollow halls of stone even for a thief, something Myldir had quickly found out for himself.

A heavy sigh escaped him as he rose to his feet cautiously, ungloved hand finding the pommel of a glistening elven dagger, and resting on the cool metal.

He had enemies in Hrothgar tonight; he was not going to be taken unawares.

Managing to take only a few steps, the door opened with a creak.

“Ulfric?” Myldir whispered, torn between bewilderment and fury.

The firelight immediately illuminated him with a warm glow, rough, ungroomed, tired, _and was that concern in the lines of his face_?

Myldir scoffed, shaking his head as he watched the nord carefully close the door. He had some nerve appearing here having ignored him all day.

But he stepped closer, his feet taking the initiative his head wouldn’t.

Ulfric stared the elf down as he approached, and Myldir saw the concern in his eyes melt away into anger all too late.

The Jarl gripped a handful of the robe at Mydir’s chest, and in a quick twist and one easy motion, had him pinned to the old wooden door, which groaned at the collision. 

His breathing was erratic and shallow, the Norse blood stirring.

Myldir was helpless, able only to direct a look of purest irritation into burning Nord eyes, torn between lust and an urge to strike.

“What you did in there… That was not just.” Ulfric growled.

“ _Just_?” Myldir spat.

“Those were not fair negotiations.”

He could hardly believe what he was hearing.

“They worked out well enough for you!” he replied darkly, though the truth of the nord’s words struck him, it was all quickly washed away with anger. So much time had gone into preparing responses for that damn negotiation, for ensuring Ulfric would come out all he stronger.

It had all been for him.

“It is not the Nord way.” Ulfric pushed Myldir further into the door, the handle dug into his hip, but he gave no sign of discomfort, he would not divulge that.

“Of course not,” Myldir began, with a wicked smile. “Not enough King slaying.”

Something flashed in Ulfric’s eyes as he brought his face closer. Myldir matched his snarl, and both men stared fiercely at one another.

But then Myldir almost faltered.

They were but a breath away.

“You’re letting them rule you.” Ulfric said in a low growl.

Myldir raised an eyebrow. _Them_? The Blades? The Greybeards?

Silence hung in the air.

“Spit it out!” Myldir barked, inclining his face upwards towards the Jarl, who winced.

“Your emotions, you’re ruled by emotion.”

“ _What_?”

Now there was a truth he thought he had worked well to hide.

Neither man dared to speak.

The tension grew thicker, the silence loud in their ears even as their eyes were locked.

Myldir tried to conceal the trepidation on his face, but as Ulfric drew ever so slightly closer, it was all in vain.

He closed his eyes, a natural reflex as he felt the nord’s breath mingle with his own.

Myldir waited.

But the embrace never came, rather it was broken by the very man who initiated it, who promptly strided over to the wooden chair in front of the fire.

Myldir took a moment to catch himself, to wish away the heat in his cheeks.

He pushed his hair back as the words passed between them entwined in his thoughts once more. Ulfric had been upset at him for not giving Tullius fair negotiations?

He could have laughed.

_What had he to complain about_?

There came a dull creak from behind him, Ulfric had resumed Myldir’s position at staring into the fire, crackling away quite merrily.

The dovahkiin inhaled deeply; even here inside the halls of Hrothgar, one still breathed the sharp air of the mountains. Its coolness parted the clouds in his head, cleared some of the anger-induced fog.

Perhaps he _hadn’t_ been fair.

Myldir groaned as the thought struck him.

It was done now, there was no way to revoke all that had been decided, even if... even if it had been wrong.

He let out another weighty sigh as he turned to walk to Ulfric, chewing round the reluctant words in his head. The sound of his footsteps bounced of the walls as he came to stand a little in front of the Jarl, and joined him in gazing into the fire, but not truly seeing it.

“Your words carry meaning.” Myldir said quietly, sitting himself down in front of the fire, his back to the Jarl.

There was a gruff laugh from behind him. Any other day the sound would have endeared him, but today it only stoked the fire of his anger.

He turns his head to cast Ulfric an agitated look, but it faltered and faded as he saw what was reflected in the brown ore of the Jarl’s own eyes. Vague curiosity and mild disinterest. Reminiscent of when first they met, long before nights spent picking locks into fancy bedchambers and waiting under the furs to entertain the future High King.

A smile crept onto Myldir’s lips. They were fond memories of a time when the dragon threat seemed so far off, as though it were not real at all.

That one simple thought of dragons brought the weight of the present back instantly. Myldir lightly scratched the back of his neck, hearing Ulfric shift in his seat slightly.

_Tomorrow, he had to capture a dragon._

Could one as sorely tired as he even do such a thing? He felt as though he had not the energy to call a skeever with his thu’um, never mind a dragon. He buried his head in his hands, would there ever be a chance to sleep, for just one night...

“When are you returning to Whiterun?” Ulfric asked slowly.

_How serendipitous._

“In the morn, at first light.” Myldir replied, not lifting his head.

“The morn?” 

The note of sheer shock in his voice caused Myldir to swivel around and raise a sceptical eyebrow, Ulfric shook his head.

“You waste no time, Dragonborn.”

“Neither should you.”

The words hung in the air for a time, both men contemplating all the morning would bring; all it would take away.

“I trust you’ll be careful?”

Myldir could only blink at the warrior.

_Was there anything careful about luring dragons into palaces?_

“What?” Myldir hissed eventually. Ulfric met the stern gaze for a time, before his own expression softened with a slight tilt of his head, causing something to ache terribly in Myldir’s stomach.

“It seems I am ever worrying after you.”

Myldir started again, shuffling closer to inspect the man’s face, for there must be some illness upon him for him to be speaking so... so strangely!

He stared up into lined eyes, but saw nothing aside from the same tiredness he felt within himself.

The corners of Ulfric’s mouth twitched up a little, riling up Myldir once more.

Though it didn’t really feel like anger anymore, no, it was more akin to sorrow, perhaps even longing.

“You look tired.” Myldir said sharply. 

This time Ulfric really did smile.

“As do you.”

The wood elf huffed, and tossed his head.

_Why was he speaking like that? Where had his tenacity gone?_

This weary man, hunched over in his chair and looking so warmly at him couldn’t be the man from the stories, the leader of the biggest rebellion Skyrim had ever seen. 

It couldn’t be him.

“Neither of us can rest, not for some time yet.” Myldir grimaced darkly as he tore his eyes away, though they were reluctant.

“True enough.”

The gruffness had returned in the Jarl’s voice, not completely, but it was enough to set Myldir at ease. He returned to slouching and staring into the glowing heart of the fire, allowing himself to think of the inevitable battles ahead.

Both men were lost in thought, it was almost comfortable. It reminded Myldir of lazy mornings spent in mutual silence, just before the dawn, just before the time came to vanish from Windholm until night fell again.

Myldir watched as the nord brought his hip-flask to his mouth, and something stirred in him to see the sturdy muscles in the warrior’s neck contract as he swallowed.

His throat suddenly felt very dry.

Perhaps Ulfric mistook the bosmer’s letching for thirst as he passed the hip-flask down, but Myldir did not like the smirk on his face as he snatched up the flask, and drank deeply.

_Of course it was mead; mead was used more often then water in Skyrim._

He passed back the flask, catching a stray drop with his tongue and trying not to smirk himself upon seeing how raptly the Jarl watched him.

The sweet taste lingered in his mouth; he didn’t much care for the stuff, but knew he would have to grow accustomed to it if he were to survive here.

A cold shiver slithered down Myldir’s back.

That was assuming he even had a future in Skyrim after his duty as Dragonborn was done, was there a place for him at the side of the High King?

The mead tasted bitter now.

“What troubles you, love?”

Myldir had almost opened his mouth to answer before he took in the words fully.

He looked up at Ulfric with eyes burning with fire, hardly daring to breathe lest some flame escape him. The nord met his impassioned gaze with one of worry, concern but also sincerity.

That riled the elf up more-so.

“ _Love_?” he whispered. A deadly timbre.

“Myldir, I...”

“How dare you taunt me so!”

“Myldir!”

The elf forced himself between the Jarl’s thighs, kneeling up inches away from his face, and pointing an accusing finger at nothing in particular.

He had snapped.

“I go out of my way to come to you with news about this negotiation first, I put my head on the line to see you come out all the stronger, and just how many times have you used me for your own personal gain? How many lies have I told to cover your back?” Hissed the elf, bearing his teeth with every syllable.

“Myldir...”

“STOP SAYING THAT!”

He couldn’t meet Ulfric’s eyes, they were too warm, too safe, he didn’t have a place there, but neither could he keep up his rage. His outburst had drained him; he felt nothing but tiredness now.

“You,” began Myldir, his voice faltering. “You can’t just say that now.”

He could feel his heart beating in his chest.

He was exhausted.

“Not after I’ve waited so long.” Myldir whispered, finally bringing himself to look Ulfric in the eye.

The Jarl didn’t waste his chance.

He clasped both hands around the bosmer’s face, stilling the words yet to spill, brushing away a sparkling tear with his thumb.

Myldir lifts his head, his chest heaving with shallow breaths.

He saw Ulfric draw closer as he closed his eyes, and this time the embrace did come, rough and desperate, the nord’s stubble scratched the side of his face, irritating the scrapes there, but Myldir needed the warmth.

Myldir broke for breath, before a gentle hand guided him back to the Jarl’s lips. It was a slower kiss now, both men revelling in the familiarity the other exuded, the occasional adventurous tongue, the slight infused taste of mead.

Ulfric kept a hand on Myldir’s face after the kiss broke once more; the elf closed his eyes, savouring the fervour, savouring the feeling, the feeling only he could conjure up in him.

The nord’s hand moved from his cheek to push back tresses of black hair, and for a time he simply looked at the Dragonborn.

It was not something anybody had ever done before, look at him like that, and certainly not for so long. Myldir turned his face slightly, growing ever more aware of the thin scar upon his cheek, the result of a blade in the dark, a quest gone bad.

Myldir’s clear discomfort warranted a bark of laughter from Ulfric, who was clearly relieved he wasn’t going to be roasted alive; he tousled the elf’s hair affectionately, knowing his lover was far too tired to grow angry again this night.

However, Myldir was never too tired to glare.

But his heart wasn’t in it, and the glare turned into a wicked grin.

“Come and see me in Windholm, won’t you.” Ulfric asked lightly, his jovial tone did nothing to hide the serious intent of his question, and Myldir groaned with a roll of his eyes, before setting his head down on Ulfric’s lap.

A hand enveloped itself in his mane of tangled hair, and lightly caressed the nape of his neck.

Myldir smiled again as his eyes drew closed.

He was sorely tired, after all.


End file.
